


John Watson and the Case of the Disingenuous Flatmate

by suitesamba



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Divorced John, First Kiss, First Time, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, casefic, detectiveJohn, friends to something more, happy endings, no baby watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:11:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4364315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after Sherlock returned from the dead, John’s living at 221B, and the only thing that seems to have changed is his weight. He’d really like to stay home this Friday night, but Sherlock’s agreed to take a despondent Molly out dancing, and insists that cheering up Molly is a two-man job. But letting Molly choose the venue may have been Sherlock’s undoing. </p><p>John Watson is on the case, doing a bit of detective work himself to reveal the secret Sherlock’s been keeping from him, the secret that has something to do with <i>Fringe</i>, the nightclub Molly’s sister recommended. Along the way, John must confront the niggling jealousy that keeps rearing its ugly head as he finds out that what he thinks he knows about Sherlock is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the  Fringe

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to try something more fun while I work on my magical realism piece - currently seven chapters and continuing. Please note that everything I know about the London nightclub scene is from reading other fics and from Google searches. This is a light-hearted piece, staring with John and Sherlock ten years after Season 3. John still thinks he's straight, and still thinks Sherlock's....not? Four chapters are planned. Sexy times and happy endings are guaranteed.

As he did nearly every Friday at six o’clock, rain or shine, John trudged up the stairway, dumped his keys and wallet on the table, and carried the groceries into the kitchen. And, just as he always did when he returned to 221B, in their “just flat mates” version of “Honey, I’m home,” he glanced into the sitting room as he passed. Today, Sherlock was lying on his back on the sofa, fully dressed from coat to shoes, staring at the ceiling.

Unsurprisingly, neither Sherlock’s attire nor his position gave John pause.

“Going out?” he asked. He put the milk away in the fridge and looked back at Sherlock. He, for one, planned on a relaxing night in with take-away and the telly, but it was uncomfortably likely that Sherlock had other ideas and was planning on commandeering John’s peaceful evening.

“Yes – we are.” Sherlock continued to gaze at the ceiling.

 _We._ No. Wrong pronoun. That wouldn’t do – not at all.

“Can’t. I have a date.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s head turned slowly toward him. He seemed to look right into John’s lying heart. His eyes said _Interesting. You haven’t had a date in eight months, haven’t been talking about anyone new, and conveniently have a date when I’ve made other plans for us._

“Meredith. From work. I’ve mentioned her, haven’t I?”

He grabbed an apple from the counter, tossed it into the air and caught it, trying to look pleased with himself. He didn’t have the balls to ask Meredith out. She was at least fifteen years younger, and probably smarter even than Sherlock. 

“Actually – no.”

“No? Really?” He tried very hard to look surprised, since he knew perfectly well he’d not mentioned Meredith to Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t particularly responsive to idle chat about women John found attractive. 

“Really.”

“Hmmm. Well – anyway – since I have plans, I suppose you’ll have to go on without me.” John took a bite of the apple, rotating it to avoid a suspicious looking hole - not a worm hole. He suspected Sherlock had stuck something into it. “So where are you going?”

Sherlock smiled and rolled his head back to center, staring at the ceiling as he steepled his hands.

“When you have a date, and I do recall this although it’s been nearly eight months since your last one, you don’t stop for groceries on the way home from work. You don’t linger in the kitchen eating apples. And you never engage in idle conversation with me.”

“Fine.” John wanted to toss the apple at Sherlock’s pompous head but resisted the temptation. Had it really been eight months? “I don’t have a date but I don’t want to go out. So - where are you going – by yourself?”

“Excellent. Persist in the ridiculous illusion that you’ll be staying in tonight.”

John sighed – again. The problem with Sherlock was that it was just so much easier – so much less stressful – to simply concede. He tried to be enraged, but he was too tired, and honestly, he knew where this was all going anyway. “Can’t you just _ask_ me for once? Maybe explain what’s going on and _invite_ me along?”

Another slow sideways roll of the head and Sherlock was staring at him again. “Molly believes she’s fat.”

John digested the statement, then opened the refrigerator again and rummaged around for a beer. “Molly believes she’s fat,” he muttered as he twisted off the cap - a cap that was suspiciously loose. He sniffed the beer, glanced at Sherlock, then gave it up and took a long swig. In his years here at 221B, he’d repeated a thousand and one random and often nonsensical statements that came out of Sherlock’s mouth. If nothing else, it bought him processing time.

However, this particular statement wasn’t exactly nonsensical, though it could hardly be considered an explanation or an invitation. Molly had gained a good bit of weight since she’d married, become pregnant, had two children in quick succession, and left Bart’s.

John took another long swallow of beer - did it taste vaguely of apples or was his suspicious mind working on overdrive again? - then made his way to the sitting room and looked expectantly at Sherlock, waiting. John had turned waiting for Sherlock into an art form. He could stand in position, arms crossed, staring at Sherlock and waiting for an explanation, far longer than Sherlock could tolerate the scrutiny.

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa like a cat in the sun – an exceedingly lanky cat who always struck the same position and who found the ceiling extraordinarily fascinating. And right now, he was ignoring John altogether.

“Fat.” Sherlock repeated, managing to look both bored and introspective. “Overweight. And not attractive. Unappealing. Ugly. I find this idea abhorrent. Molly looks no different today than she did ten years ago.”

John refrained from pointing out that Molly looked ten years older, two stone heavier and had changed her hair color. Eventually, Sherlock turned his head slowly toward him and raised an eyebrow. “You’re quiet.”

“Just waiting to hear what we’re doing tonight,” John conceded. One of these days, he really was going to tell Sherlock no and mean it. But – He sighed. But there was always that niggling fear that he’d miss something. Something fun. Something exciting.

Something dangerous.

Sherlock sat up in one fluid movement and scrutinized John. “Wear comfortable shoes,” he said. “We are taking Molly dancing.”

Not surprisingly, as it turned out, taking Molly dancing wasn’t Sherlock’s idea at all. It was Mrs. Hudson’s idea, and Mrs. Hudson, once an idea was in her head, didn’t let go of it easily.

“Dancing,” repeated John, staring at his feet, which were already covered by the most comfortable shoes he owned, and were tired after a long week on his feet. Dancing. This was certainly new. Sherlock may as well have said “We’re going to Mycroft’s to play football” or “I thought we might get matching tattoos.”

Not that Sherlock couldn’t dance. He’d taught John, hadn’t he, back before the wedding when he’d found John Googling dance lessons. Sherlock was a good dancer – no – an excellent dancer. Elegant and graceful, truly a natural. Even an uncoordinated oaf like John had realized that. He’d managed to turn John’s clumsy efforts and two left feet into something at least passable for the night.

The whole experience had disquieted John, who’d been determined to go through with his decision to marry Mary, and did not want to consider how perfectly _right_ it had felt to spin around the room with Sherlock. Wedding jitters, he’d decided. He’d put it out of his mind then, and, with the passing years and no more waltzes around the parlour, had nearly managed to forget the whole thing. The wedding planning was not much more than a blur, and was coloured with the emotional upheaval of Sherlock’s rocky homecoming. 

“Dancing,” confirmed Sherlock, bringing John back to the here and now. “I suggested, when Mrs. Hudson ordered me to undertake this outing, that Molly’s husband might take her instead. However, she claims that Molly and Justin have been divorced for nearly two years.”

“Jasper,” corrected John, distractedly, still staring at his shoes. “Justin is their son.”

Sherlock went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “She was put out with me that I thought Molly was still married. She reminded me that we had all gone out to a pub together when Molly was going through the break-up to help console her. I don’t recall it, but Mrs. Hudson claimed I was playing with my mobile the whole evening, texting insults to Mycroft. I did wonder why Justin hadn’t been coming around.”

“Did you?” John looked up. He didn’t correct Sherlock again - what was the point? It certainly wasn’t hard to believe that Sherlock had spent an entire social event texting insults to his brother. He didn’t mention that Jasper had “come around,” all of one time in the years he and Molly were married. Why the hell hadn’t Molly warned him not to open Sherlock and John’s refrigerator? And why had it had to have been a set of male gonads in the specimen bowl on that very day?

“Quite right – anyway, we have our orders. We’re to take Molly dancing. I’ll do most of the dancing, of course. You’re rather abysmal at it.”

“I am?” John frowned.

Sherlock gave him a pained look. “Have you danced even once since your wedding?”

John sighed. The matter of John’s wedding was still a sore subject between them, even though John had now been divorced longer than he’d stayed married. “Not that kind of dancing, Sherlock. We’re not taking Molly waltzing, for God’s sake.”

“No?”

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised.

“Sherlock.” John said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You really don’t know what you’ve agreed to, do you?”

“Of course I do.” Sherlock stood and moved over to the table by the door, where he casually picked up John’s wallet and started rifling through it, a nervous habit and flagrant invasion of privacy that John had learned to tolerate, as he’d learned to tolerate all things Sherlock. He’d often considered tucking random business cards into his wallet, perhaps one from a sex-therapy clinic, or a mysterious key, or a photo of the reigning monarch. As he watched, Sherlock pulled out a condom, turned it over in his hand, then dropped it onto the table. “Not your normal brand,” he said. For some unfathomable reason, he refrained from commenting on the “Tingling Mint Pleasure” claim on the package or the fact that the condom had been in the wallet so long that it looked like it had been run over by a lorry.

“You don’t really imagine we’re taking Molly out to do a bit of ballroom dancing, do you? And put that back.”

Sherlock pulled a thumb tack off the wall and stuck it through the condom, then pinned it to the wall. “Mrs. Hudson did not specify what kind of dancing. Nor did Molly, when I texted her, though she told me not to worry about the venue – she knows just where she wants us to take her. She also said that we need to find a babysitter for her diminutive offspring and that I’d best not embarrass her or she’ll do something unmentionable and decidedly painful to my testicles.”

John’s gaze instantly strayed downward toward Sherlock’s belt. “Your testicles,” he repeated. “She actually said _testicles_?”

Sherlock scowled. “She may have used a colloquialism.”

“You do understand the purpose of this evening, right?” asked John as he pulled the tack from the condom and looked at it forlornly before he binned it. It was like saying goodbye to an old friend - it _had_ ridden around with him for the better part of a year. He returned his gaze to Sherlock, who hadn’t bothered to answer him. “So, what club did she choose?” He probably wouldn’t recognize the name, but thought he’d have a much better chance than Sherlock of doing so.

“A club is a club,” said Sherlock dismissively. Oddly, he didn’t seem unduly alarmed at the idea of a club. Of course, he was probably envisioning the Diogenes. “The venue hardly matters when the goal is to burn calories.”

John was silent for so long that Sherlock actually noticed.

“John?”

John shook his head slowly.It still amazed him that Sherlock, ridiculously brilliant Sherlock Holmes who got nearly everything right by never taking it at face value, very consistently got _this_ wrong by taking it at face value.

“No. Sorry. It’s not about burning calories – at all.”

“Of course it’s not.” Sherlock sighed dramatically and twirled a finger distractedly in the air. “Go on then – enlighten me.”

“Mrs. Hudson wants us to take Molly out and show her a good time – remind her that she can still have fun, that she’s attractive to the opposite sex. Distract her, Sherlock. She’s not with anyone now, and she’s feeling unlovable.”

“Unlovable.” Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“She doesn’t like what she sees in the mirror,” John explained. “She’s put on some pounds, Sherlock. She's had two pregnancies, for Christ's sake. She’s probably tired all the time with Justin and Jack underfoot.”

Sherlock frowned. “Justin and Jack?”

John glared at Sherlock. “Stop that.”

“Right. Children. Small, unsanitary, loud, noisome.”

When it came to these particular children, John agreed, but he wouldn’t acknowledge that, knowing the Sherlock might very well reveal his opinion to Molly. _Molly, you do know that John feels your children are unsanitary? As a medical professional, his opinion does carry some weight._ “And she’s given up her job, so she doesn’t have anything intellectually stimulating to distract her.”

“You’ve gained a stone, and are still doing locum work, and I don’t find you any less lovable.”

John opened his mouth to argue, and closed it quickly. He’d gained eleven pounds in the six years since the divorce, not a stone, but this was not a battle he was likely to win. Sherlock would have him on the scale if he argued, and would somehow know exactly how much his shoes weighed, and that he’d recently added arch support insoles. And Sherlock had no business comparing John to Molly anyway – John wasn’t Sherlock’s partner. Not that kind of partner, anyway. Not a _life_ partner. No matter what it might look like from the outside. To practically everyone. 

Still, Sherlock found him lovable? He tucked the thought away - there was no time to battle that one out in an interminable war of words that would leave him even more confused than he was now. So he went down a different road.

“You don’t think Molly has changed in ten years when she has, in fact, gained two stone and dyed her hair blonde, but you notice when I gain eleven pounds?”

“I noticed when you’d gained five,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly. His eyes raked John from shoes to eyes. “And honestly, John, eleven?”

John sighed. This was his Sherlock, totally unaware that Molly had divorced, but fully aware that John had changed brands of condoms.

His Sherlock. When… _when_ had he started thinking of Sherlock as his? He firmly resolved at that very moment to ask Meredith out on Monday.

He managed to push the unsettling thoughts away and gave Sherlock a stern look. “Right – and it goes without saying that if I want to understand the typical British male, I look to you.”

“Do you find yourself less lovable because you’re older, heavier and had to buy all new trousers?” Sherlock looked at John shrewdly.

John didn’t answer. As it was nearly impossible to believe that Sherlock had even asked that question, he simply ignored it.

“I bought new trousers because you boxed up all my old ones and donated them to Oxfam.”

“They didn’t fit. You moved the buttons. Mrs. Hudson told me but I’d already noticed.”

John glared. “Now - I’m going to get dressed. In my new trousers. You got us into this so you figure out where we’re going – Google it. Dance clubs. London. Something for the middle-aged crowd. And somewhere we can get in without Mycroft’s help, please.”

“As I already told you, Molly’s chosen the club.”

“She has?” God, he was tired. “Right – good.”

“In what world, exactly, is this _good_?” Sherlock said dryly.

John tossed his half-eaten apple at Sherlock. Sherlock caught it with one hand, and idly took a bite.

ooOOOoo

No one was really surprised when Sherlock became difficult while they were still in the cab.

Molly, hair tied back, wearing a yellow halter dress which showed more cleavage than either of them would have guessed she was hiding, and looking almost bouncy, leaned forward to whisper the club’s name to the driver, then settled back between Sherlock and John. The cab was small, and they all scooted to adjust to the tight fit. Sherlock pulled in his elbows.

“I didn’t catch that,” he said.

“You weren’t meant to,” Molly replied. “It’s a surprise – my sister Hannah says it’s perfect. Popular with a discreet older crowd, but not so popular that it’s impossible to get in. Fun but subdued. They have different dance themes every night. I didn’t want to unwind somewhere everyone would ogle Sherlock and want autographs and ask to have their photos taken with him.”

“Hey, what about me?” John asked.

Molly squeezed his thigh indulgently. “You only get recognized when you’re with Sherlock,” she said. “Poor baby.”

“John is perfectly recognizable alone,” said Sherlock.

There was something off in his voice. John looked over at him, but Sherlock was looking out the window. The cab turned left and Sherlock sat up straighter.

“Are we on the guest list?” Sherlock asked when the cab made two right turns in quick succession.

“Yes – Hannah helped me with that, too,” Molly replied. “I had no idea how to go about it.”

“Guest list?” John asked, staring at Sherlock as Molly went on about how her sister Hannah had seen Prince Harry at Amika when she’d managed to get in with her boss and her husband and son. “How do you know about guest lists, Sherlock?”

“Consulting detective. I know everything,” murmured Sherlock as the cab stopped just past a busy corner.

“Right - like London clubs and guest lists,” muttered John under his breath.

“Since I’m being forced to have a good time with you, one of you should pay for the cab.” Molly was touching up her lipstick as she spoke, and she looked deliberately at Sherlock.

Who didn’t look like he was planning to exit the cab at all.

“Perhaps a different location,” he said. “Where is this Amika?”

“What’s wrong with Fringe?” Molly asked, leaning across Sherlock and popping the door open. “It’s fine. And we’re on the guest list.”

Fringe, John now saw, was understated from the outside – a brick exterior with stone-fronted arches, darkened windows, a minimum of neon. He could hear a dull thrum of music, and there was, unbelievably, only a short queue in front of the door, which was guarded by a burly bouncer.

Sherlock finally stepped out of the cab and stood on the pavement. He brushed off invisible lint from his sleeve.

“It’s too crowded,” he said.

Molly exchanged a meaningful look with John.

“It looks fine,” John said. “It looks perfect, in fact. If you’re worried about dancing, Molly and I will show you how it’s done.” Quite brazen of him, really. He hadn’t been a good dancer even back in school when he’d actually gone to clubs more than once every decade.

Sherlock didn’t look a bit comforted. In fact, he looked a bit ill.

He looked even worse when the bouncer recognized him.

Sherlock had been in the news so often that it wasn’t altogether uncommon for him to be recognized as they went about life in London, but he seldom reacted as brusquely as he did now. John noted that Sherlock actually seemed to blush. The man laughed when Molly told him they were on the list.

“Right – you needn’t bother next time. You’re always welcome here with Mr. Holmes.”

John would have said that there most definitely wouldn’t be a next time, but Sherlock had positioned himself between John and Molly and the bouncer, and was speaking to him very quietly. John had a sudden desire to know what Sherlock didn’t want him to hear. He stepped around Molly, into the man’s line of vision.

The bouncer’s face immediately stretched into a wide smile.

“Dr. Watson!” His gaze traveled back to Sherlock, who looked shell-shocked, then over to John again.

“Yes – well – right.” John said, hoping he didn’t appear as flustered as he felt. “Nice to meet you.”

He didn’t have time to offer a hand, or even to contemplate whether offering a hand to a club bouncer was appropriate, because the door was open and Molly was pulling them through, tugging each of them by the hand.

Friday nights, they soon found, were devoted to Eighties music.

The atmosphere was not one John would ever have deliberately chosen for a night out with friends at this point of his life. Twenty years ago, possibly. Too many people, too much noise, too much alcohol. But Molly had him by the hand, leading him determinedly to the dance floor, before he could finish his first drink, leaving Sherlock holding her empty glass and John’s nearly full one.

Quite a lot of people – far more than usual – seemed to recognize Sherlock. It seemed there was always someone at his side when John caught a glimpse of him, though Sherlock’s eyes seemed to remain fixed on John and Molly no matter how many people pressed around him.

The dance floor, fortunately, was crowded, so John’s completely empty repertoire of dance moves wasn’t glaringly obvious. Molly didn’t seem to mind. She seemed happy enough to be out of the house and in the company of adults, even adults who were as socially challenged as Sherlock and John. Conveniently, just as the song ended, a man at least ten years her junior appeared at John’s elbow and asked her to dance. She gave John a look that said “I’m done with you for now - please go away now and don’t let Sherlock ruin this for me.” 

John understood.

He made his way over to Sherlock, who was still surrounded by a small fan club consisting primarily, oddly enough, of middle-aged men. Definitely not the usual demographics for his admirers, John noted. He had to shoulder his way through a crowd of people watching the dancing, and by the time he actually reached Sherlock, the fan club had scattered.

Sherlock explained, when John asked, that he’d encountered a former client out on his stag night. And when John asked him the client’s name, Sherlock gave him the look. The look that said “One of the clients I had while you were married and not going on cases with me because you were too busy having sex holidays.”

From that point of the evening forward, Sherlock remained at John’s side, and Molly always had a dance partner.

Either of these things, taken individually, would have been highly unusual. Together, they were highly suspicious. 

“I’m getting another drink,” John said, leaning in to speak directly into Sherlock’s ear to be heard over the music. They’d stood side by side for two more songs, and Molly had been snapped up by a different man for each one. “I’ll be back in a minute. Maybe you should grab Molly for the next song.”

And he’d turned away, naively expecting that Sherlock would actually ask Molly to dance, but, when he’d reached the bar, he found Sherlock right at his elbow.

The bartender, a silver-haired man with a handlebar moustache well into his sixties looked like no bartender John had ever seen. He shooed away John’s money. Sherlock immediately slid it back across the bar toward the bartender, who looked affronted, but took the money nonetheless.

“Good to see you here at last, Dr. Watson,” he said as wiped up some condensation. “Rather surprised to see you on a Friday, though. Should have guessed you’d want something a bit less formal if you ever decided to come.

There were so many potential reactions to that statement that John couldn’t begin to formulate a response. At last? What was that about? And what was this ‘less formal’ business? Less formal than what? Than whom? 

Sherlock was tugging at his elbow.

“Come along, John. Molly’s waving us over – ah – I think she’s found dance partners for us.”

“Wait – Sherlock. Stop!” John tried to break away from Sherlock’s iron grip as Sherlock dragged him by the wrist toward the dance floor. “What’s _wrong_ with you? Dance parnters? You don’t want to go out there and dance, you idiot. Wait – what the….”

His voice trailed off as he noticed that a pathway had opened up before them through the crowd, leading directly to the dance floor. People were pushing back to make way for them. Some of them were clapping.

“Sherlock –,” John hissed as a chant of “Sher-lock! Sher-lock!” started to rise.

“This is highly embarrassing,” Sherlock muttered. He still had a death grip on John’s wrist. 

“Sher-lock! Sher-lock!” The crowd was chanting in chorus now and more people had crowded in to see them.

And suddenly, in a burst of yellow, like a superhero arriving at exactly the right moment for maximum dramatic effect, Molly appeared, panting and flushed.

“Your turn, Sherlock!” she exclaimed, and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s hand. John executed a quick spin to prise Sherlock’s hand off his wrist, then stepped away quickly before he was pulled on the dance floor with Sherlock and Molly. He flexed his aching wrist as the crowd heaved a collective groan.

John stared at Sherlock as Molly dragged him away. He huffed. He glared at the crowd in a way that he hoped conveyed that he was horribly affronted by the the onlookers’ complete lack of decorum. What the hell was going on here?

The music started –a slow song. U2 – With or Without You. Molly took it in stride and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock caught John’s eye, then quickly looked away. He looked totally out of his element with Molly in his arms, yet somehow managed to move – exquisitely.

Exquisitely? When did John use words like exquisitely, even in his inner monologue?

But...Jesus – this song. And Sherlock. And…

By now, much of the crowd had bled out onto the dance floor and John watched Sherlock and Molly float lazily around it, noting that Sherlock’s eyes were on him and not Molly. He gave John a rather pathetic smile and shook his head madly as John pointed to the bar and held up an empty glass.

“You let them down,” the bartender said, pushing a pint in front of John as soon as he eased up onto a stool. Once again, he shooed away John’s money, and John didn’t protest,.

“Me?” John settled in. With Sherlock out on the floor with Molly for a song or two, he might be able to get to the bottom of whatever was going on here.

“They’ve been hoping to see you out there together since word went ‘round you were here.”

John nearly choked on his beer.

“Look,” he said. “It’s not like that. We don’t’ – we aren’t – we’re friends. Good friends. But not the kind who _dance_ together.”

The bartender seemed to look right through him into that closed-off place where he kept the memory of his pre-wedding dance lessons.

“Pity.” He turned to fill another order. 

John nursed his beer and wondered if people would ever stop assuming that he and Sherlock were a couple. He almost wished he could send a photo of Sherlock dancing with Molly off to the papers – Sherlock Holmes, out on the town with a person of the opposite sex.

Now _that_ would be news.

“He’s very good,” the bartender said as the song died away. “A bit surprising to see him here on a weekend, though. What brought you out here tonight?”

“Just a night out with an old friend,” John answered. “And honestly, wouldn’t it be surprising to see him here during the week too?”

Oddly, the bartender didn’t answer. His gaze wandered off behind John, and he looked speculative, then leaned in.

“Thursday’s the night you want,” he said. “Semi-professional, in fact. We’ve got a running contest, and a live band.” He reached under the bar, then slid a folded leaflet toward John. “Read that.. Maybe you’ll consider coming out next week.”

He emphasized the words “coming out” and John glared, out of habit more than annoyance, but folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

The song was wrapping up and he really didn’t want to be pulled out on the floor again, so he got up and headed for the gents.

The facilities were uncommonly large, with a spacious antechamber with dressing tables and mirrors.

John backed out quickly. He stared at the pictograph that clearly indicated that this, indeed, was the gents’ loo. He was still considering what to do when Sherlock brushed by him. 

“Hello, John,” he said as he went directly to a mirror and examined the front of his shirt, which was damp and had dark smudges on it.

“Interesting facilities,” John said. “What happened to your shirt?”

“Are they?” asked Sherlock. He continued to examine his shirt, then sighed and gave it up. “Molly cried on it.”

“Yes, they are. I thought I was in the ladies.”

“Really?” Sherlock looked around. He didn’t seem at all surprised to find himself in what looked more like a hotel lobby than a men’s room. “Well, are you ready to go?”

John laughed. “And explain to Mrs. Hudson why we’re back before midnight – I don’t think so. Besides, Molly’s having a great time – or she was." He glanced at the rumpled mess of Sherlock’s shirt. “Why was she crying?”

“Happiness. Joy. Too much alcohol. The tears were short-lived – she dried them as soon as I passed her off to her next partner. The ex-husband of a minor royal. Tall, dark, handsome, rich, a former football player. Boring and conceited. Cheating on his girlfriend and very likely involved in criminal activity - money laundering, most likely - but I doubt this night is about long-term commitments for Molly so I let it go.”

John watched as Sherlock tried to adjust his jacket to cover the smudges on his shirt. “By the way,” he said, “the barkeeper is trying to tell me something - he’s being cryptic about it, though. He seems to think we’re here on the wrong night – that Thursdays might suit us better.”

“Thursdays?” Sherlock, who’d been running his fingers through his hair, stiffened, looking sharply back at John in the mirror. “You have dinner with Harry on Thursdays.”

John shrugged. “She’d like this place – she could come with us. It’s low key and….”

“Your sister is an alcoholic. A chronically wavering alcoholic who has been sober for less than a year. You can’t bring her to a club. Any club.”

Sherlock was right, and it annoyed John quite a bit to get that particular lecture from Sherlock. “Fine – I’ll reschedule with her – we can meet on Wednesday instead. I’m sure she won’t mind. It’s not like either of us have much else going on.”

“You two have been meeting on Thursday evenings at seven for almost three years. It’s a constant in Harry’s life. Something on which she can depend, John. Your presence, you dependability, your support – these are the things that have saved Harry’s life.” Sherlock had abandoned his primping and turned to face John. “You can’t change the designated day – not even once.”

John’s mouth dropped open again and he stared at Sherlock. He wanted to laugh. Who _was_ this man lecturing him on familial obligations and what the hell was this outburst really about?

“Right. Right – calm down.” He took a couple steps toward Sherlock and put his hand lightly on Sherlock’s arm. “I’m just having a little fun with you, Sherlock.” he said, hoping to diffuse the situation and turn Sherlock back into the faux sociopathic consulting detective that did not – ever – take such an interest in John’s relationship with his sister. “I don’t even know what they do here on Thursdays.”

“Mud wrestling,” deadpanned Sherlock. He’d turned back to the mirror and was straightening his collar.

“Mud wrestling? Yeah, that would be a bit less formal.” 

Fortunately, John had a flyer to tell him what really went on on Thursdays, didn’t he? He dug into his pocket and pulled out the folded leaflet the bartender had given him. It was a tri-fold brochure, glossy and full-colour, and he smoothed it out and began to unfold it. 

“John! Down!”

And suddenly, John was on the floor, Sherlock on top of him, wind completely knocked out of his sails. The pamphlet flew out of his hands, but he hardly noticed, trying as he was to get air into his lungs.

In a chain of events that set John’s mystery solving back several weeks, another club patron happened to be entering the room at this exact moment, witnessed Sherlock tackling John without apparent reason, and assumed that John required assistance. He immediately jumped atop Sherlock, and soon all three were rolling about on the floor. The man, who weighed more than twenty stone and who’d had more than enough to drink that evening, was finally subdued by three other patrons, then promptly passed out.

On top of the pamphlet, which John had already forgotten.

ooOOOoo

Molly did, in fact, get home after midnight that night.

But only after a visit to the A&E to sew up the crown of John’ head, which had been slammed into a table, and to reset Sherlock’s shoulder, which had been dislocated when the other man wrenched his arm behind his back. John wasn’t altogether happy to have the top of his head shaved, making him look like a medieval monk, and Sherlock mourned the loss of his favorite shirt – which was cut off in the A&E – far longer than Friar John thought appropriate.

“I thought he had a gun,” Sherlock claimed, when John asked - rhetorically - why he’d tackled him to the floor. “He made threatening sounds.”

It was a weak excuse, but John’s head hurt too much to argue.

And when John remembered the lost pamphlet, Sherlock stared him down. “John, do you really want to go back to that place? Really?”

John, lying on half of the sofa while Sherlock was folded up on the other, ice pack balanced on his shorn head, saw the wisdom in Sherlock’s response.

“No - not actually,” he admitted.

And they settled in for take-out and telly, which was John’s original plan for the weekend anyway. Somehow, though, it didn’t feel very much like a win.

 

_TBC_


	2. All That Glitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the Thursday following what they now refer to as the "Incident" at Fringe, John and Harry go out for their weekly get-together, and Sherlock stays home conducting an experiment.
> 
> Or does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really not trying for a clueless John in this story. I'm trying to present a John who is so comfortable in the abnormal normal of life with Sherlock, that ten years into their friendship, he's still taking Sherlock's words from that first night at face value and believes Sherlock is married to his work and not interested in anything else. Again, this story is supposed to be light-hearted and fun, so hope you can go with it. --SS

Nearly a week after what they now referred to only as “The Incident” at Fringe, John made a point of trying to speak to Sherlock before he left for work. 

He found Sherlock sprawled over his bed, on his stomach, one hand dangling over the side, fingertips grazing the floor, and the other resting uncomfortably on the footboard. A sheet was draped across his middle section, leaving his limbs and torso bare. It was a great deal of white to take in all at once, but this wasn't the first time John had seen a sheet-draped Sherlock. At least today he was safely home in bed and not traipsing through the corridors of Buckingham Palace.

John stood in the open doorway, watching Sherlock breathe. Hard as it was to believe, he really did seem to be sleeping. And even though he was somewhat reluctant to wake him, John cleared his throat.

Sherlock didn’t move.

“Sherlock – it’s Thursday,” he said in his ‘things you need to know before I leave for the day’ voice. The kind of voice he used to tell Sherlock to pick up milk or that he was expecting a delivery or that the toilet was plugged up.

“I am aware.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled. He spoke directly into the mattress without moving his head.

So, not asleep after all.

“I’m going to dinner with Harry tonight. I’m taking the hat.” He brushed his hand against the bristle on top of his head.

“You look fine. Leave it.” Sherlock turned his head slightly to the side and opened one eye.

John pursed his mouth and rubbed the top of his head. He didn’t look “fine.” He had a bald spot on top of his head the size of a small dinner plate. “We’ll probably take in a film, too. So I’ll be out late.”

“And how is this different than any of the last one hundred and fifty one Thursdays?”

John frowned. “Actually, I just texted Harry about our mishap last weekend. She knows of the club – she thinks they have ballroom dancing on Thursday nights.” 

_The Fringe? They’re the one with ballroom dancing on Thursdays – huge gay crowd._

Really, it hadn’t been until he’d read her response that he’d given much thought to the pamphlet he’d dropped. But he’d stared at his mobile, reading – and re-reading – Harry’s text. And then he’d come directly here before he lost his nerve.

Sherlock rolled over. Ah – that had grabbed his attention, hadn’t it?

“You can’t possibly be thinking of going back there.” Sherlock squinted in John’s general direction.

“Me? Oh, no. No.” He shook his head, making it clear that he had no intention of returning to the club. “Actually – I thought you might be looking for something to do tonight. While I’m out with Harry.”

“Something to do?” Sherlock repeated slowly. “While you’re out….with Harry.”

“Yes. Tonight. Since you like to dance – waltzing and such.” He’d really only suggested it to get a reaction out of Sherlock – though what reaction he was expecting – or hoping for – he really couldn’t say.

“In what world, John, do you imagine I would return to that place after what happened on Friday? I would rather mind Jonathon and Jarvis while Molly goes on holiday for a week than go back there.” Sherlock rolled again, further twisting the sheet around his middle so that it draped almost artfully when he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Justin and Jack,” John said. “Molly’s boys,” he clarified at Sherlock’s blank stare. “The ones you’ll be minding while she flies to Aruba.”

“In fact –” Sherlock stood, tossing the end of the sheet over his shoulder toga style. “If given the choice between returning to that club or being pushed around London in a pram by my brother, I would likely choose the pram.”

“Right. Got it. Mycroft. You. Pram.” He grinned.

“People in my face. Not a shred of respect for our privacy. Loud, crowded, over-priced and the drinks were watered down.”

The drinks had been perfectly fine. “The drinks weren’t….”

But Sherlock was pushing past him and making his way to the bathroom, still complaining.

“Actually, John, I’m rather glad you brought up the subject. I believe I’ll call in a favour and have Mycroft shut that place down. If they can’t guarantee their guests’ safety even in the bathroom, they have no business opening their doors to the public.”

“You’re not _still_ insisting Parker was going to attack us! Sherlock!” John rattled the bathroom doorknob but Sherlock had locked the door. He banged on it a few times, then retreated down the hallway, turning back one more time to shout, “Fine! Ignore me. But for God’s sake, let that club be and keep Mycroft out of this!”

How could Sherlock be such a blind idiot about this? Lestrade had visited them personally on Saturday to get their story, because the club wanted to press charges against Hugh Parker, the man who’d jumped Sherlock in the gents. But Parker was insisting he’d only done so after seeing Sherlock attack John, playing the Good Samaritan as John was clearly defenseless and at a clear size disadvantage. Sherlock, in turn, insisted Parker had been drawing a weapon as he entered the room. 

“A comb, Sherlock. A comb. That’s all he had on him except for his wallet and his mobile. No knife. No gun. No pepper spray. No pointy nail clippers.” Lestrade had come in to find them sitting together on the sofa, in their dressing gowns, watching crap telly and tussling over the lone blanket. “It’s clear you over-reacted. Though it’s rather touching that your first instinct was to save John.”

His eyes dropped to the shared blanket, and he at least attempted to not look like the cat who’d caught the canary. John sighed but Sherlock pressed his foot up against his thigh in a clear attempt to make John swat at it, thus giving Lestrade even more misleading information. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture for Sherlock, and one that gave John some pause.

“But honestly, when they threw this one at me because it involved you two, I laughed and said there was no way the two of you were actually at a club – dancing. Or whatever.”

“Mrs. Hudson made us go,” John said.

“Molly picked the venue,” said Sherlock, at the exact same time.

Lestrade looked unconvinced. His gaze traveled to John’s shorn head, and he blinked, bit back a smile, and looked quickly away. “Well, I’m telling the club there are no grounds to prosecute. I’ll tell them Sherlock has a bit of a trigger finger and just over-reacted.”

“I did not over-react,” Sherlock grumbled. 

That hadn’t been the end of it, unfortunately. The club had been oddly insistent on the matter of prosecuting Parker, and on Monday, John had walked in on the tail end of a conversation between Sherlock and someone from the club. 

“He’s quite insistent,” Sherlock had said. “No grounds … Yes, I agree it’s suspicious … five minutes before the incident? Highly suspicious I’d say … No, no charges. Let me handle this ….”

Sherlock was standing with his violin and bow in one hand, his mobile in the other, facing the window. John had come down from his room, quietly, as usual, and Sherlock hadn’t seemed to notice his presence until he turned from the window and took a step toward the table where he’d placed his open violin case.

There was something – something in the way he started upon seeing John, something in his perfunctory smile, in the way he turned his head too quickly and ended the conversation.

“So – someone from the club?” John asked, trying to sound as if he didn’t care in the least and was just making idle conversation, something which, incidentally, he never did with Sherlock.

Sherlock tucked his mobile in his pocket and gave John an over-bright smile. “Club – right. Yes – they’d really like to press charges.”

“So what happened five minutes before the incident?” John followed as Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

“Hmm?” Sherlock removed a carton of eggs, a head of lettuce, a jar of mayonnaise and a bottle of champagne that had been in there nearly as long as John had known Sherlock. Happily, John was able to ignore this odd choice of snack and focus on getting answers from a seemingly distracted Sherlock.

“What you just said – on the phone. You said something was highly suspicious – something that happened five minutes before the incident.” 

“Five minutes before what incident?” Sherlock’s eyes were darting around the counter. “Ah-ha!” He sprang upon two pieces of bread peeking out of the toaster. John thought the bread had probably been toasted and forgotten the previous day.

“You tackling me in the gents’ on Friday,” John said, grabbing for the toast in Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock deftly evaded him. “Sherlock – pay attention. Greg asked us to let this go so what, exactly, are you going to _handle_?”

“Oh – that. Nothing, really. The club checked the video monitoring but the system went down five minutes before the attack.” He tore a chunk of lettuce off the head, tossed it on the bread, added some mayonnaise and then looked around the kitchen as if expecting bacon to materialize. When it didn’t, he abandoned the sandwich, left everything on the counter, and wandered back to the sitting room.

“Wait – Sherlock! The cameras went down just before Parker came in? Does Lestrade know?” Why was Sherlock being so damn blasé about the whole thing? It didn’t take a consulting detective to connect the dots here – someone had tampered with the security system – someone who didn’t want anyone knowing what was going on in the gents.

“Lestrade doesn’t need to know,” answered Sherlock. He sat on the sofa, dropped his head back, and closed his eyes. “I’m going to deal with Parker myself. Fine – he didn’t have a weapon. Not a traditional weapon, in any case. But he did have a mobile, and that mobile had a camera.” He opened his eyes and looked at John significantly, obviously encouraging John to draw his own conclusions, or, better yet, to arrive at _Sherlock’s_ conclusions.

“You should tell Lestrade,” John said with a sigh.

But of course, Sherlock hadn’t.

So today, with Sherlock’s adamant insistence that he’d rather be pushed in a pram about London by Mycroft than return to Fringe, the conversation John had overheard on Sunday didn’t quite add up.

Four days ago, he’d looked ready to jump feet first into the club’s video surveillance failure, which surely would entail a visit to the club. 

John thought the whole thing very odd, but he’d been living with Sherlock for so long that he no longer lost sleep – or his appetite – because of unusual things having to do with Sherlock. Besides, he was bound to be late for work today, and he’d rather not get into a row with Sherlock and get even more behind. 

It would wait. He’d see what else Harry knew about the place and think about the whole thing later.

ooOOOoo

It turned out that Harry had never actually been to Fringe. She knew it as one of London’s gay friendly clubs, and the only one of any note that offered ballroom dancing.

She’d nearly choked to death laughing at John’s new haircut, then insisted on running her hand over the just-growing in bristle. As they tucked into their meals, she asked for the full story, which he dutifully relayed, from Sherlock’s announcement that they were taking Molly dancing all the way to their misadventures in the A&E.

“So he tackled you? Just like that – in the loo?”

“Well – in the sitting room – just outside the loo. Knocked me to the floor and landed on top of me. I hit my head on a table on the way down.”

“And he threw you to the floor because he thought this Parker bloke had a gun?”

John shrugged. It had seemed so plausible when it happened, no matter how ridiculous it seemed now.

“So he put himself between the attacker and you?”

“He was trying to get us both out of his line of sight.” John poked at his steamed vegetables. “I’d have done the same, Harry. It’s – well, it’s instinctive with us. We watch each other’s back.”

She gave him an appraising look. “And how long have you been watching each other’s backs, Johnny? Ten years, now? Aren’t you ever planning on settling down?”

“I’m settled….” he began. But he trailed off and she pounced on it.

“Exactly!” She leaned forward at John’s automatic eye roll. “You’ve given up women, John.”

“I haven’t. I like women.” And he did. He did like women. A great deal, in fact. This was not an argument his sister was going to win. Ever. Sherlock either, for that matter.

“I didn’t say you didn’t like them,” Harry said, reaching across the table and touching his wrist. “You just like Sherlock more. Right?”

“I don’t – I’m not….” He sighed, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m not gay, Harry. Where are you going with this, because believe me, I’ve heard it all before.”

She gazed at him for a while, the corner of her mouth quirking. Sober Harry was growing on John. Sober Harry might be a bit less exciting, but she was far more stable, more predictable, and her mental acuity was spot on. Finally, she pulled her hand back.

“So, why aren’t you with a woman, then? Why don’t you even try anymore?”

“It’s complicated,” he answered automatically. He poked at his potatoes. “Can we talk about something else? Your job – how’s that new job? The Yoga studio, right?”

“Great client base – mainly female, educated, career-minded. They come to stay fit, de-stress.” She brightened, a bit artificially. “You should come in, John! Sign up for a class or two. You never know – you might meet somebody.”

“Harry – stop. I’m fine. It’s just – it’s not a good time. And I don’t have the best track record, do I? As soon as it starts to get serious, things …” He stopped, not sure how to finish the sentence. Things get awkward? Things screech to a halt because Sherlock texts me – repeatedly - when we’re tearing off our clothes in her flat? Things cool off because Mycroft kidnaps me while I’m on my way to pick her up for a weekend in the country?

“Not things,” Harry stated. “ _Sherlock_. As soon as it starts to get serious, _Sherlock_.”

John aggressively shoveled an overlarge spoonful of potatoes into his mouth.

“John – I know it’s none of my business.” Harry’s hand settled on his again. John swallowed and took another bite of potatoes. Sometimes – and he felt so guilty for this – sometimes he preferred drunk Harry to this more thoughtful sober version. He was still getting used to sober Harry. Sober Harry wasn’t so selfish. Sober Harry noticed things about him. Sober Harry wanted to _fix_ him. “But I want you to be happy. Sherlock is obviously your first priority. You’ve _chosen_ him, John. And I don’t think you’ve done so just because it’s easier to let him have his way. I knew you’d eventually figure out that you can’t live at 221B with Sherlock and date other people.”

“Women.”

“Fine. Other women.”

She grinned, and John couldn’t help grinning back. She took that as an opening. 

“There’s no reason you can’t have it all, you know,” she said. “If he’s the one – well, then he’s the one. Love is love, John.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock doesn’t want that.”

“But do you, John?”

The conversation left John uncomfortably off balance, forcing him to consider aspects of his life he’d much rather let chug along, unchallenged, just as they had for years. Yes – he conceded – he did put Sherlock first. He couldn’t imagine the flat share would have gone into a second week if he hadn’t let everything else drop when Sherlock needed him.

And even he could see that a relationship with anyone else would get absolutely nowhere if he jumped up from the table and ran out of the restaurant every time Sherlock texted him.

He was distracted the entire length of the film Harry chose, and found himself thinking about something he never _ever_ allowed himself to consider – Sherlock’s sexuality. 

In the time John had known him, Sherlock had shown interest in one woman - _the_ woman – and John wasn’t sure exactly what kind of interest that was. He’d seen Sherlock intimate with only one person, and despite what Janine told the papers, John suspected that intimacy hadn’t reached very deep. 

He couldn’t deny that he loved Sherlock. He missed him when he was gone, mourned him in those horrible years away, got exasperated at him, worried about him. They’d killed for each other. Nearly been killed – more than once. 

But he couldn’t love Sherlock like that – like a partner. He didn’t pine for him. Didn’t think about throwing him against a brick wall in an alley and snogging the life out of him. Didn’t think about his hair, or his cheekbones, or his arse, or his eyes. 

Did he?

Was he so bloody accustomed to filing those feelings away under “impossible” or “unreciprocated” or “what the hell am I thinking?” that he was living on autopilot around Sherlock, involved in the most intimate relationship of his life without even considering it could be – well, _more_.

And suddenly, he wondered if Sherlock loved _him_.

How would he even know? Yes, Sherlock treated him differently than he treated anyone everyone else. But Sherlock trusted him. How would he treat someone he loved – someone he loved like _that_? Would he show them small acts of love and affection? Would he be jealous? Would he try to sabotage John’s other relationships?

It occurred to John, suddenly, that he might be stifling Sherlock just as much as Sherlock seemed to be stifling him. Sherlock had needs. Jesus, even thinking about Sherlock’s _needs_ made him uncomfortable – the kind of uncomfortable that made you shift in your seat. If he loved John - _wanted_ John – would he get his needs satisfied elsewhere? Or would he be proud and noble and long-suffering and toss off in his bedroom into one of John’s jumpers?

He shifted again and Harry glanced at him, but turned her attention back to the screen soon enough. John didn’t know much, but he did know that he didn’t like the idea of Sherlock getting his needs filled somewhere else. Sherlock deserved a real relationship as much as anyone. 

But what Sherlock had was John. And what John had was Sherlock.

Damnit. He knew this. He’d been living with Sherlock more than four years straight now, ever since the divorce. Why did Harry have to make such a big deal about it now? 

He sighed. He’d started it – by asking her about Fringe. And telling her about their night out with Molly. 

Harry thought it significant that Sherlock had tackled him to the ground when he thought Parker had a gun. She thought Sherlock was not only protecting John, but putting his own life between John’s and the attacker. She thought it was noble and brave, and tragically romantic - showing little regard for his own safety while ensuring John’s.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

And suddenly, John felt very, very small. And very, very stupid.

All these years? 

Had Sherlock chosen him – all those years ago? Chosen him, fought for him, nearly died for him, done everything in is power to give John what he wanted?

_Mary._

And when the marriage ended, and John had returned to 221B, what then? He’d welcomed John back, and they’d gone about as they always had.

Could it possibly be _that_ ironic? 

That Sherlock loved him, but knew that John was straight. That John loved Sherlock, but knew that he himself was straight, so he tried to date women, but could never prioritize them as high as he did Sherlock. Which left both of them with a best friend and a flat mate, someone they’d kill for, or die for, but sleeping alone in a cold bed.

Tragically romantic or just plain stupid?

No. This was crazy. Insane. Harry had it wrong. All wrong.

Yet the image of Sherlock tossing off with John’s jumper stayed with him, and even walking down the street toward 221B an hour later, he couldn’t quite shake it.

ooOOOoo

The flat was a disaster when he got home.

He was later than usual, as he and Harry had ducked in for coffee after the movie, and Harry had dropped the bombshell on him that _everyone_ knew Sherlock was in love with him, and that none of John’s relationships with anyone else would go anywhere - ever. _Everyone_ , it turned out, was the group that gathered in 221B on Boxing Day and occasionally met out for a pub night. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. Even Mycroft, she claimed, though John couldn’t remember the last time Harry’d seen him. John, already feeling very small and stupid, felt smaller and more stupid, and a bit indignant that people were talking about them behind their backs, and assuming all sorts of things that probably weren’t even true.

He was tired, and agitated, and nervous, and wanted to go directly to his room and avoid Sherlock altogether so he could sleep off the disquiet he was feeling. 

Sherlock wasn’t to be avoided, however. Or, better said, the detritus of Sherlock’s experiment was not to be avoided.

The house reeked of it – an unpleasant sulphuric odor emanating from something gelatinous and unidentifiable in a bowl in the center of the kitchen table. The table, and the floor around it, was littered with a jumble of papers, wadded up and discarded around stacks of books, storage containers from the kitchen, bottles of cleaning liquids from the bathroom and an orange feather duster.

Which, John noted to himself, he’d never seen before, certainly not inside 221B, anyway, where cleaning materials – where they existed – were all purchased (and used) by John himself.

Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, face up, one leg on the floor and one up on the cushions. He was wearing his dressing gown over a pair of pyjama pants. His hair was disheveled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it, and he seemed to be – no.

John took a step closer.

Sleeping?

Yes. Sleeping. Not off exploring in his mind palace, not staring at the ceiling in agitation waiting for John to appear so they could go off on a dumpster search or rooftop chase. Just…sleeping.

He stepped into the sitting room. It was as if fate herself was asking him to take a good hard look at this companion he’d apparently chosen for his life’s journey consider just exactly what he was doing. Or better yet, what he _wasn’t_ doing.

It would be easier to look at Sherlock through softer, rose-tinted eyes without the smell. How the hell could Sherlock sleep with that? It was like having a dead fish in bed with you. 

Sherlock looked exhausted. His hair was still sweaty – not a good look on Sherlock with all that goop he used on his hair, for what it mattered, though, at one point or another during their relationship, John had seen it bloody, muddy, dyed red, wet from an unexpected fall in the Thames, and full of weeds and grass. One of his hands rested over his heart, while the lay beside him on the cushions. His chest rose and fell noticeably as he breathed, as if he were dreaming about racing through the streets as he slept instead of truly resting and recharging.

For an odd moment, John thought – in an out of body sort of way - about how it would feel to take Sherlock’s hand in his own, lift it to his lips, kiss his knuckles. Or kneel quietly beside the sofa as Sherlock slept, bend down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Even in this mental game, he took things slowly, carefully. Imaginary baby steps. 

The idea was not unwelcome. The mere thought of resting his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck as he slept, of sharing a bed – warm and somehow familiar – appealed to him at a base level, somewhere that felt comfortable, and familiar, and home.

He was standing just beside the sofa now, and his instinct was to drop his arm to Sherlock’s shoulder, nudge him, tell him to come to bed.

 _Go_ to bed. Go to bed.

To clean up the mess first – of course. John’s mind might be exploring new and unfamiliar territory, but first things first.

Sherlock’s head rolled to the side a few inches, and something on his cheek sparkled in the lamplight.

John blinked, focusing on Sherlock’s jawline. What the hell?

Glitter?

He wetted his lips, which were suddenly too dry, and leaned in to get a better look.

Three – no, four – minute sparkling squares adhered to the smooth skin of Sherlock’s …

Wait. John’s brow furled slightly.

Smooth? It was eleven o’clock at night. When – why – had Sherlock shaved?

He bent down just a bit closer, blinking to focus his forty-something eyes on the stubble-free face, and got a sudden whiff of something pleasant.

Perfume? Cologne?

He straightened and took a quick step backward, frowning.

Definitely cologne. But not Sherlock’s. Not one he’d ever smelled before, in fact.

He turned and stared at the mess in the kitchen, then back at Sherlock. He had the most unpleasant of feelings in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to realize that something wasn’t adding up here, and it unsettled him.

And he wasn't unsettled - not necessarily - by the fact that Sherlock was up to something. Sherlock was _always_ up to something.

But the glitter. The cologne. The recently shaved face at just before midnight.

The question burning like a hot ember in John's heart was not only _what_ Sherlock was up to but - with _whom_?


	3. Watching the Detectives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has had lots of practice playing detective with Sherlock. But spying _on_ Sherlock is a completely different matter indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter - and it definitely won't take me more than a week or two to post it. So very sorry for the long delay. Enjoy!

Chapter 3

 

Lestrade called with a triple homicide on Friday just as John was stumbling in from one of _those_ work days, and he found himself out the door with an apple in one hand and a bagel in the other ten minutes later. The case had occupied every waking moment that weekend, and ultimately earned John a bloody nose, which, added to the bald patch on his head, made him look like a cartoon caricature. The injury stung all the more as it was Sherlock who gave it to him, slamming the back of his head against John’s face in an alcove between a hedge row and a brick wall. Afterward, as John sulked in the cab, he reminded John stiffly that it was never a good idea to sneak up behind someone who was, himself, on a stake-out. 

The huge Sherlock experiment catastrophe John had encountered when he’d come home from his night out with Harry on Thursday was still there on Sunday evening when the cab deposited them at Baker Street. John, in a sour mood already with his throbbing nose and Sherlock whinging about the headache he had from banging it into said nose, pointed at the table and demanded, in his “completely fed up with you” voice, “Clean up this mess then come up with some ridiculous excuse to explain how you got fucking glitter on your face while making it!”

Sherlock froze. His hand rose to his face and brushed away glitter that was no longer there. John watched as Sherlock’s expression went from surprised to neutrally cool in a heartbeat. He shook his head slowly, wondering why he’d ever expected anything different from Sherlock, then turned and headed up the stairs without looking back. He made a great deal of noise as he climbed and closed the door much more forcefully than strictly necessary when he reached his room.

He kicked off his shoes and pulled off his blood stained shirt and vest, grimacing as the fabric pressed against his bruised nose, sparking another fine trickle of blood. Sighing, and knowing he was unreasonably angry at Sherlock and that it didn’t have as much to do with him flattening his nose as with that damn glitter and cologne, he pressed the vest against his nose and collapsed backward on his bed.

He’d just close his eyes for a few minutes before he showered. Just close his eyes and ignore his throbbing nose....

He was roused some time later by a soft rap on his door.

“Go away,” he mumbled.

The door immediately creaked open.

“Ice pack,” Sherlock said. John lifted his head to stare at the doorway where Sherlock still stood, holding out the ice pack like a peace offering. He had showered and changed, and his damp hair curled on his forehead. John closed his eyes and opened them again. Nope – not a hallucination. Sherlock was still standing there – with the ice. Sherlock Holmes had deliberately prepared the ice pack and brought it to him. All the way up the stairs. _On purpose._ Sherlock. _Sherlock Holmes_ had thought of someone else’s needs, and had acted on them unselfishly. Well, after showering, but it was _Sherlock_ for god’s sake.

“Thanks,” John managed as Sherlock stepped into the room and handed him the ice pack. He rolled onto his back and rested the pack over his entire face. He expected Sherlock to leave with this rather obvious dismissal, but a moment later, Sherlock spoke.

“Aluminum foil,” he stated. “I wasn’t planning to tell you as it involved a small explosion.”

John, resigned, opened his eyes.

“I didn’t want you to worry.” Sherlock added.

“You didn’t want me to worry.” John adjusted the ice pack.

“Overreact,” Sherlock amended.

John shifted so that he was half-propped up on a pillow and could see Sherlock over the ice pack. “Let’s see if I understand,” he said in a tone of voice that should have told Sherlock that he was not predisposed to believe a word that came out of his mouth. “You were doing an experiment, which somehow involved aluminum foil, and there was an explosion, and tiny bits of aluminum foil stuck to your face, and you didn’t want me to over-react so you didn’t mention the explosion.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock smiled. It was exactly the kind of smile he gave when he was trying to win someone over. The kind of ridiculously false and bright smile John had seen aimed at dozens of people over the years of their association. 

John stared at Sherlock. He didn’t say a word. Sherlock’s smile began to wobble. John sighed. He was weak. Totally and completely weak, even _pretending_ to fall for such a blatantly ridiculous story

“It’s cleaned up, then? The table? The kitchen? We can make tea without worrying about ingesting scraps of aluminum?”

Sherlock’s smile returned. 

“Of course. Tea is totally safe. I’ll wash the mugs again just to be certain.”

John stared after him as he left. Aluminum foil his arse. That was glitter on Sherlock’s face, and the cologne he smelled wasn’t Sherlock’s, and it wasn’t some bizarre after-effect of a chemical explosion either. He needed a plan – he was going to get to the bottom of whatever Sherlock was up to - _whoever_ he was up to. Days like today made him question his sanity in considering altering their relationship in any way, shape or form. But the cat was out of the bag, and if Sherlock wanted to play games, John would play them right back. He’d certainly had enough practice and Sherlock had been an excellent teacher in deceit over the years of their association.

But still - he needed a plan.

He needed to surprise Sherlock at his own game. The playing field was small – he was positive he’d find Sherlock at Fringe. Everything pointed to him having been very familiar with the club. But John wanted - needed – the element of surprise on _his_ side.

He smiled and reached for his mobile – he needed help, and he wasn’t above asking for it.

ooOOOoo

On Monday at lunchtime, he asked Meredith to take out the stitches in his scalp, then stared at himself in the mirror and sighed. Stitches or not, he still looked like a cross between a medieval monk and Frankenstein. He scrunched his nose – it was still sore, but at least there wasn’t much swelling. He realized – after the fact – that the time spent in very close proximity to his colleague, while she worked on his scalp and leaned against his back with her warm and soft front, hadn’t once made him think about asking her out.

On Tuesday, he spent his lunch hour looking at photos on the Fringe website. They had a small photo gallery devoted to their ballroom dancing night. The place looked packed – but then again, they’d be sure to make it seem so in their promotions even if it wasn’t. The people on the dance floor were a mixed lot – most of them out of their thirties, John guessed, though they were all, as a rule, dressed more formally than anyone had been the single time he’d been at the club. 

He definitely needed to go shopping.

On Wednesday, he feigned a toothache and ducked out of work two hours early. He spent a very uncomfortable afternoon shopping, including a rather humiliating hour being fitted for a toupee by a woman well into her seventies who seemed to think he’d had brain surgery and tried to talk him out of the dark brown hairpiece he’d chosen in favor of a salt and pepper piece that made him look like a stunted version of Lestrade. He trudged into 221 at the normal time, exhausted, and stashed his purchases at Mrs. Hudson’s before he made his way up the stairs into the flat where he found the carcass of a goat on the kitchen table and Sherlock, gloved and goggled, standing over it with a filet knife.

He never came back to 221B on Thursdays – not until after his customary date with his sister. So on this particular Thursday, since Harry had agreed to keep an eye on Fringe’s door for him, he grabbed a bite after work, then waited on the opposite side of Baker Street, in a shadowed doorway with a clear view of their door.

Sherlock opened the door and hurried out toward the street at a quarter of seven, dressed no differently than he always dressed, but with a leather carrier bag over his shoulder. He strode quickly to the curb and hailed a passing cab. John would have been surprised if the cab hadn’t stopped, but of course it did, and Sherlock slid inside, staring at his mobile in hand.

John watched the cab disappear then stepped out of the doorway.

While he had fully expected Sherlock to do exactly what he’d just done – leave the flat, unsuspicious – he was the tiniest bit hurt that Sherlock had done it all so casually. And that he’d likely been doing it for months, and perhaps even years. Sleeping in, lying on the couch in his dressing gown, staring at the ceiling, shooting the wall a few times, leaving anonymous passive aggressive responses to John’s blog entries. Then showering, getting dressed for a night of dancing, buttoning up a form-fitting shirt, putting on…cologne. Slipping out and timing his return so that he was home and in bed or lounging about (bored bored bored) when John got home. 

Already showered – no sign of someone else’s cologne. No glitter on his cheek from – what? Theatrical make-up? A cheek rubbing against his own? Lips whispering sweet nothings in his ear?

John pulled out his mobile and texted his sister.

_He’s on his way._

He slipped the phone in his pocket and made his way across the street and into 221. He was beginning to feel the adrenaline of the chase, even though his quarry was one of the good guys. Or had been, he thought, with a discontented grumble. He retrieved his clothing – freshly pressed by Mrs. Hudson in return for a day of servitude fixing a plumbing problem in her bathroom – and thirty minutes later stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom looking like a much better dressed version of himself.

Save for the dark brown hair and moustache.

Which looked – well, barely passable. He’d spent a week’s salary on the hairpiece, since every inexpensive one he’d tried left him looking like a rodent cowering on his head had suddenly suffered a coronary and died there. Still, barely passable was better than utterly ridiculous, and the colour was quite ordinary. He thought he’d blend into the crowd well enough based on the photos he’d studied online – he just hoped they were actual photos from the venue and not recreations staged with actors. He’d purchased new trousers and jacket, a new shirt and tie. Even new shoes – there went the rest of his pay. From everything he’d read and seen, he thought Fringe would be fairly crowded, but he had a feeling Sherlock would key in on him if he wore even one article of clothing Sherlock had seen before.

He ran his fingers over the moustache, then scrunched his nose to see how it moved. Well enough, he decided. The spirit gum tacking it to his lip was holding well. He had only two goals for the evening – to stay off Sherlock’s radar, and to find out just exactly what he was up to. 

As he went through the final preparations – cologne from a sample he’d picked up while Christmas shopping more than a year ago – he recalled, with some irony, the number of clients who’d come to them because of an unfaithful partner. Sherlock found these clients particularly boring and mundane, and had deigned to take on a mere handful of these cases – the most interesting ones where murder was involved or imminent – and they’d gone out on reconnaissance together more than once.

He’d never thought he’d be going out on recon alone, and that his target would be Sherlock Holmes.

Who he really shouldn’t accuse of being unfaithful, despite how it _felt_. His brain told him he was being a hypocrite but his heart disagreed.

Another glance in the mirror and he squared his shoulders and smoothed down his moustache, then reached for the cheap reading glasses he’d nicked from the break room at work. Nondescript, wire frames, oval lenses, lightly tinted. He blinked at his reflection.

He really didn’t look much like himself.

But he wasn’t trying to remain incognito in a roomful of strangers. He was trying to keep Sherlock Holmes – his best friend and flatmate – from realizing he was in the club.

For an entire evening – or at least as long as he remained there with Clara.

Clara was Harry’s idea. John would have a date – Harry’s ex, in fact. A woman Sherlock had never met, and who happened to be of average height, average build and as non-descript as John on an average day. He’d always liked her – she was both witty and funny, a good conversationalist, professional and polite. Why she’d agreed to come John couldn’t guess – he supposed she owed Harry a favour of some sort, or she wanted to sit back and laugh while John made a fool out of himself trying to spy on the world’s only consulting detective.

It really shouldn’t be too difficult. Once he and Clara got settled at a table, they’d be just another couple watching the dancing and having a drink or two. As long as Sherlock wasn’t actively looking for him, or ran into him accidentally, or flattened him on the floor of the men’s lounge, he’d be able to observe Sherlock at his leisure then make his get-away without Sherlock ever realizing he was there.

He took one more look in the mirror – the brown hairpiece really did make him look like a different man – and his mobile vibrated just as he was pulling it out of his pocket to check it.

_S has arrived. VIP line – greeted by name, shooed right in. What’s in the bag?_

As if he knew.

He sighed. There was nothing for it – he was going to go through with this ridiculous plan and spy on Sherlock Holmes. Was he absolutely insane? Did he really want to know what Sherlock was doing at that club? Dancing – undoubtedly. Waltzing. With a … a partner. _Touching_ them. Spinning them around the dance floor, just as he’d once moved with John in the echoing quiet of 221B so John could dance with his bride at his upcoming wedding.

_One-two-three, one-two three._

Sherlock had led first. He’d been so fucking _serious_. What a battle he’d had to teach John _not_ to stare at his own feet.

 _You’re_ thinking _too much. Don’t_ think!, _Let me lead, John. Look at me._

Let me lead. Look at me.

Did Sherlock know – that long ago – that John was a totally different man in his arms? How his resolve to move forward had nearly faltered?

Christ – that was so long ago. Everything had changed.

Or – perhaps – nothing had changed.

But it would now – one way or another. At the very least, no matter how this night turned out, he had taken the first step. Acknowledging his feelings. Admitting he just might want something more.

If it wasn’t already too late.

 

ooOOOoo

Clara took the initiative after they found each other outside Fringe, and leaned in to kiss John’s cheek. She was dressed in tailored grey trousers and a cream-coloured blouse. She was almost exactly his height, and a few years older – not really his type at all, no matter her preferences, which was exactly why she’d help him sail under Sherlock’s radar.

He hoped.

He was nervous as they made their way toward the bar, nervous still as they found an out-of-the-way table. The floor was open, music playing, people dancing. The ballroom dancing crowd was even older than the noticeably older clientele of the weekend before but the general mood, while more quiet and toned down, still had an air of festivity and excitement. 

“So – I’m guessing you don’t dance.” Clara nodded toward the dance floor as she leaned back in her chair. She appeared to be taking in the club, and reserving her judgment for now.

“Not – well, whatever this is,” John answered. He was scanning the dance floor, looking for Sherlock, and not paying much attention at all to the music.

“The Cha Cha.” Clara sighed. “Well, I didn’t expect to actually _dance_ , I suppose.”

“Do you?” John asked, turning his head toward her. “I mean – you know the dances, then?”

“I know them all,” Clara said with a small smile. “You’ve never watched _Strictly_?”

“Strictly?” John frowned.

“The dance show – come on, John. It’s been on for years” She laughed and shook her head as she picked up her drink.

Realization hit. “Oh. Right. Strictly Come Dancing.” He lifted his glass and looked into his drink critically – he’d never ingested anything quite so blue before. “I suppose I’ve caught a piece of it a time or two. Flipping through the channels to find something else, anyway.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “You do know they do that here, right? A local version of it, anyhow. Competitive dancers paired with anyone who wants to give it a go.”

“Competitive…right.” He remembered a tab on the website now, one he’d ignored completely. Competitions. Not something he cared about in the least. 

“And they have nightly dance-offs too,” she continued. “They rotate through all the ballroom dances – one each week.”

“How do you know all this?” John asked. He pulled his eyes away from the dance floor and stared at Clara curiously.

“I read reviews,” she said with a shrug. “Isn’t that what detectives too – come prepared?” She smirked and raised an eyebrow, then squinted as she looked toward the bar. “Hey – isn’t that Sherlock?”

She had lowered her voice to a whisper, and John followed her gaze to the bar where sure enough, Sherlock was standing, drink in hand, talking with a woman whose hand rested on his forearm. 

Sherlock had an easy, relaxed look on his face. A smile – but not quite a grin. He nodded, smiled – a real smile – then leaned back against the bar and surveyed the room, looking toward the dance floor, thank God, instead of in John and Clara’s direction. The woman scooted up onto a bar stool, facing the dance floor just as Sherlock was. She crossed her legs – long, shapely legs – then glanced up at Sherlock and gave him a sultry smile.

John imagined it to be sultry, anyway. He really couldn’t read the look in her eyes from this distance, but her body language was completely clear.

Wasn’t it enough that she was wearing a snug red dress and that her hair cascaded down her back in dark curls? Curls that had no business trying to show up Sherlock’s own gorgeous mop of hair?

She wasn’t exactly young – fortyish, probably – but she was definitely a beauty. And Sherlock was paying attention to her. Chatting amiably. It seemed to John that Sherlock was deducing the other patrons. She’d point – unobtrusively, of course – to someone, and he’d study them, sometimes rub his chin a bit, before shooting off what had to be a dozen deductions and suspicions in rapid fire. She’d laugh, and point out someone new, and Sherlock would cock his head and the game would start again.

He looked relaxed. Very much at ease. Like he was enjoying himself, enjoying the game. The same game he’d play with John sitting at the window table at Angelo’s, or waiting for the idiot detective in charge of the case Sherlock had just solve to take their statement.

John frowned. He made himself look away, his stomach churning oddly, and when he looked back again, pretending to do a casual visual sweep of the club floor, the woman was staring at him. Her face softened into an interested smile. She winked.

He looked down. Shit.

“It’s nearly eight – they should be starting soon.” Clara nodded at the dance floor. The music had stopped after the last piece, and the floor was clearing out. On a small stage to the rear of the floor, a man was fiddling with some equipment and, when John glanced quickly over to the bar, he found that both Sherlock and the woman in red were gone. He scanned the room but didn’t see any sign of them.

Damnit. He told himself to relax – it was early still. 

Clara had indeed done her homework. A few minutes later, a tall man wearing a gold jacket took the mic and the crowd applauded.

“We’d best get things going so you can all get home and tucked in before you turn into pumpkins,” he began, to general laugher. “It’s Waltz night – so for the next hour, the Fringe Benefits will guide you newbies through some basic steps, then we’ll have the Waltz Off!”

“Fringe Benefits?” 

“The dancers,” Clara explained. “There they are.”

“Oh my God.” John started to laugh as at least a dozen people appeared from a door at the rear of the stage and made their way down to the dance floor. They were all wearing sparkling silver jackets.

“You know the drill,” the announcer continued. “And if you don’t, all the better!”

Another round of applause and laughter, and John had a sudden sinking feeling.

“Our dancers need partners. You can ask them, or they can ask you. One way or another, they’ll be back out here on the floor in five minutes.” He scanned the room, then pointed back into the corner where John and Clara’s table, and a half dozen others, were located. “And don’t think they can’t find you back there!”

“Maybe we should leave,” John muttered, watching as the silver jackets began to fan out into the crowd.

“John – really. They can’t _make_ you do anything you don’t want to do.” Clara was clearly enjoying herself far too much.

“Right.” He downed the remainder of his drink – was that his second or his third? – and pretended not to pay any attention to the sparkle of the silver coats as they moved through the room.

It was hard to ignore, however, when one of those coats was getting closer and closer to their table. John recognized Sherlock’s companion immediately, now wearing the form-fitting silver jacket over her red dress, and willed her to pass him by.

No luck. She stopped beside Clara, giving John a friendly – and practiced – smile.

“Is it alright if I steal your boyfriend?” she asked flirtatiously, resting a hand briefly on Clara’s shoulder.

“Go right ahead,” Clara answered. “I’ve got a twisted ankle and can’t dance tonight. He’s been bored to death.”

John shot her a death glare. Oh, she was good. Twisted ankle, his arse. “Oh, I couldn’t,” he answered. “Absolutely not. I can’t have all the fun and leave Clara here alone.”

“Of course you can,” Clara immediately insisted. “She smiled at him then reached over and grazed his cheek with her knuckles. “I’m fine – I’ll sit here and just soak it all in. You’ve been dying to learn to waltz.”

“I have not. I mean – I don’t…. I already can. Waltz.” He gave her a death glare.

“You haven’t waltzed for ten years,” Clara returned. “We’re supposed to start lessons next week.”

“Well, there you have it,” the woman said, moving closer to John and taking his hand. She leaned down closer. “I’ve a hundred quid riding on getting you to dance with me,” she whispered. “And a hundred more if we make it to the final three. But I’m not allowed to tell you that so shhhhh.” She straightened up, still holding onto his hand. “Come on – looks like the floor is getting crowded.”

John rose to his feet slowly as she continued to pull him forward. He glanced at Clara, who reached out and gave him an encouraging push. “Go on – have fun! You can teach me when I’m not hobbling around anymore on this ankle.”

John reluctantly followed the woman as she pulled them through the crowd. People hooted and clapped as they passed. This was a very bad idea. Sherlock had recognized him – no doubt about it. And put her up to this. He probably thought John wouldn’t be able to resist the beautiful woman and would humiliate himself in front of all these people.

“I’m Selma.” The woman flashed him a smile. “I’ll split it with you, of course. Fifty quid just for getting on the dance floor with me, even if we’re out the first round.”

“I don’t…oh my god.”

“What?”

“Oh my god of my god oh my god.”

John was suddenly confronted with a glimpse of Sherlock on the other side of the dance floor, a Sherlock was was wearing one of the blinding silver jackets. Which was completely impossible. He immediately lost complete control of his brain and speech. He pulled away from Selma, who maintained her surprisingly firm grip on his arm, and attempted to flee.

“And we’re ready!” The announcer’s voice boomed out suddenly. “You know we always start with a practice round – seven minutes of the basics so our stars can show you the steps. And a one!”

The music started and Selma’s hand was on his waist, and this was not happening. 

Not happening not happening not happening. Sherlock was absolutely _not_ wearing a gaudy silver jacket, was not part of this ridiculous floor show. There was absolutely no way in the world he was being _paid_ to dance with strangers. He had not offered Selma a hundred quid to get John on the dance floor to make the humiliation of being caught at his own game even worse.

But what _was_ definitely happening was that Selma was leading and he was following, just as he had all those years ago with Sherlock, the music pulling him all too easily into the old and familiar steps. 

With Sherlock, who was wearing a silver jacket, and was on the other side of the dance floor, mere steps away, dancing with somebody else.

“I don’t understand,” John said, though, in fact, he did. And his mind was spinning madly trying to formulate a plan to take back control of this evening. In what world had he dared to think that Sherlock wouldn’t see right through his pitiful disguise and spot him amid hundreds of other people? 

_In the world when you thought he was here with someone special,_ John reminded himself as his feet moved automatically beneath him. _Where he’d have eyes for no one else._

Selma laughed. “Fifty quid is fifty quid. It was a bet I knew I could win. No one can resist a waltz, now, can they?” They turned and he saw the back of Sherlock’s head, so recognizable no matter what he was wearing. “You’re good – you’ve done this before. Just a bit out of practice, is all. Loosen up a bit. There. Ready to switch?”

“Switch?” John sounded panicked. 

Selma’s hand on his waist was relentless. “Swtich roles. Lead – think you can turn this around?”

Could he? 

He let her reposition his arms, and it all came back – like riding a bicycle, he thought.

“We’re going to have to step it up a bit for the next round if we don’t want to be cut. I’ll do all the work –you can just stand there and look pretty.”

“That would be easier without the moustache.”

“Don’t make fun of his moustache.” Selma surreptitiously elbowed Sherlock in the side. “I like it.”

“You do not. Stop being ingenuous. It’s awful. Atrocious.”

John refused to look at Sherlock. He kept his gaze downward. That’s when he noticed the feet that were moving gracefully in front of Sherlock’s. Feet encased in black wingtips. His eyes rose quickly upward.

Sherlock was dancing with another man.

A tall man, nice looking, ten years younger than John at least. Impeccably dressed. Probably had some stray glitter on that handkerchief folded neatly in his breast pocket. Jesus the bloke was _pretty_. No way he’d ever held a gun, or jumped in a dumpster, or run through an alley. 

The emcee announced the beginning of the first elimination round. “If you’re tapped on the shoulder by a judge, leave the floor. Two couples will be eliminated this first round so give it your all, ladies and gents.”

Suddenly, John very much wanted to beat Sherlock Holmes at his own game. He looked at Selma and tightened his hold on her back, drawing her in a bit closer - much too close for the strangers they were.

“Let’s win this thing,” he said, glancing over at Sherlock and his oh-so-charming partner. “Let’s get you that extra hundred quid.”

_TBC_


	4. Bait and Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go head to head in more ways than one at The Fringe and at 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap. Let me state here that all the YouTube waltzing videos in the world won't make me a ballroom dancer, but I did what I could. Forgive the errors in form and protocol when it comes to the waltz. This was a fun piece to write, and while it took quite a bit longer to complete than I expected, I appreciate your patience with it and with me. Thank you!

Selma could waltz backward and forward and upside down and blindfolded, but she’d never won against Sherlock, no matter his partner du jour.

They were midway through the first round, when she mentioned this to John.

“He never loses,” she said. “I’m happy to try – don’t get me wrong – but don’t get your hopes up.”

“He’s a bastard and he’s going down,” John said, raising his arm and remembering to continue the box step as Selma went into a graceful underarm turn. 

“Smile,” she said. “We lose points for looking like we hate each other.”

“I don’t hate you,” he countered, sliding a glance over to Sherlock, who was sweeping around the floor in exaggerated steps with his partner, who, John now thought, might still be in Uni.

Selma laughed. “You’re dancing like you’re trying to prove something. Forget about him. He’s just jealous of that lovely moustache.” 

They made it through the first round with no problem at all. Two couple were eliminated, and Selma spent the short break teaching John the butterfly step and the twinkle.

“I know these,” he said, as he managed to lead her through the twinkle step. “Or I did. But Sh – “ He realized his slip and corrected himself. “Sheila – she taught me to waltz so I could dance at my wedding – she called it something else.”

“Oh, really?” Selma seemed interested. John thought she was probably thinking this Sheila wasn’t a very good dance instructor if she didn’t know the real names for the steps. 

“And we’re down to ten!” The announcer’s smooth voice reverberated through the mic. “We’re going to step it up a bit this round – I’m sure our instructors know the drill and have introduced you to something a bit more challenging.” He signaled the band. “And a one and a two...!”

Sherlock grazed by them. John had watched Sherlock lead his partner through something far too complex to be part of a beginner’s competition, holding him much too closely for a standard waltz. But now, as Selma’s hand came down to rest on his shoulder, he was brought back to the task at hand.

He took Selma’s hand in his, and placed his other hand on her back, then let it slide down until he was gripping a bit more of her than proper. He turned his head slowly, waiting for the first beats of the music, and stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked away.

Two could play at this game.

He was utterly surprised at how quickly the steps came back to him. He’d waltzed at his wedding, and not one time since.

Had never felt much like waltzing, either. He wasn’t the sort to dance about the kitchen as he made tea, and on the few occasions he’d been anywhere close to a waltz – and it had happened a time or two on cases with Sherlock – he’d consciously hummed to keep the tempo out of his head. 

But today, he had something to prove, and a beautiful woman in his arms to help him do so. And Selma proved a worthy partner in crime. Twice, she executed complicated moves which only required that John keep up the box step and hold up his arm so she could twirl or spin. Her only instruction had been to keep his eyes on her. And he tried very hard to do that.

So why was it that he’d never in his life had such a hard time staying focused on a beautiful woman? 

There were a hundred reasons to keep his eyes on her - on the movement of her red skirt, on her hair as it bounced over her shoulders, on her sparkling eyes and bright smile – and only one to let them stray.

And that one reason was currently flouncing around the dance floor with a schoolboy in his arms.

Well, not exactly _flouncing_ , if he were honest with himself. Floating. _Gliding._ John’s eyes were drawn away from Selma to Sherlock time and again. Every time his eye wandered, Selma’s hand would grip his shoulder more tightly, and he would collect himself and return his attention to his beautiful partner, trying his utmost to not only keep his eyes on her, but to _focus_ on her. Thank God she was an excellent dancer – she’d give Sherlock a run for his money even if her partner was catatonic.

The round ended with Selma virtually leading John through a move that involved what she called a hesitation, even though he was pretty stretched just focusing on his ups and downs to go along with the one two threes. He began to regret that he’d worn new shoes with all this stepping and standing on his toes, but he smiled through the pain and gave it his all. 

It was easy to do when he glimpsed Sherlock gazing at his own partner and smiling.

He wasn’t close enough to tell exactly what kind of smile it was – the pleased with himself smile that he wore most often, or the pleased with someone else smile that, frankly, John had always felt was reserved especially for him, or that ridiculous false smile that usually got him what he wanted.

The man in his arms beamed back at him. Oh, John could recognize _that_ kind of smile from a mile away.

Bastard.

Both of them.

Two more couples were eliminated that round – but Selma carried them, reacting fluidly and expertly to John’s missteps and blunders to cover them and even make them seem part of their routine. During the next round, Sherlock brushed against them at least three times, and once deliberately tried to trip John. At least John was convinced of it – his shoelace might have been untied but Sherlock’s foot stepped on it _on purpose._ However, luck was on their side as one of the silver-jacketed dancers tripped over a spectator who stumbled onto the floor and twisted his ankle, and the other eliminated couple hadn’t progressed past the basic box step.

With only six couples on the floor, there was more room for each to perform, and Selma expertly moved them as far away from Sherlock as possible. For the next two rounds, John successfully kept his eyes on his partner and danced better than he ever had, fueled by the thought of what it would feel like to actually beat Sherlock. Two couples were eliminated after round four, and one more after round five, then round six started with only three couples on the floor. 

And five minutes later, they were down to two.

With the cussed determination of a man with something to prove, John glared at Sherlock, who seemed to be trying to quickly teach his partner a new step. Sherlock’s hand was low on the other man’s hip – on his arse, really – not at all where the lead’s hand belonged in the waltz. Sherlock looked smugly at John and squeezed. His partner responded by stepping closer to him and grinning, then reaching up to brush Sherlock’s sweaty curls out of his face.

John silently fumed. 

He deliberately moved his own hand lower on Selma’s waist, then leaned in and whispered in her ear, leaning back and laughing at her response, looking directly into her eyes.

The music started once again. John was sweating under the hairpiece and false moustache. The crowd was vocal now, cheering on Selma and Sherlock with equal volume, applauding when either led their partner in a showy or complicated move. John had no time – or energy – to look at Sherlock anymore. It was all her could do to keep up with whatever Selma might try next. When the music stopped, he dipped her until the top of her head grazed the floor and her high heeled red shoe was somewhere near his ear. 

“Now wouldn’t you know – we have a tie!” said the emcee a minute later. “It seems that our judges can’t decide who’ll take home the trophy this week. So what do you all think we should do about that?”

“Dance off!” shouted the crowd.

No. No no no. No more dancing.

“A dance off it is, then!” said the emcee. He addressed the crowd again. “Should we mix it up?”

“Switch!” shouted the crowd.

Selma, who obviously knew the routine, squeezed John’s hand.

“We’re switching partners, honey,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind dancing with a man.” She grinned at the look on his face. “Don’t worry – he’s a gentleman. He won’t grope your arse or take any liberties.” 

And before John could protest, the emcee had stuck a mic under his nose and dropped an arm around his shoulder.

“Why don’t we ask our contestants a few questions,” he began. “And you are?”

“George,” John said, trying to sound jovial and not like he’d just run a mini-marathon. 

“George? Is that it?”

“George Wa – Washington.”

Quite a few people laughed. “George Washington? Really – you’re named for the first president of our wayward colonies?”

“Family name,” he muttered.

“Actually, I thought it was George Harrison.” 

Sherlock was standing over his shoulder and had leaned down to speak into the mic.

The crowd laughed and applauded.

John had the sudden sinking feeling that he did very much look like one of the Beatles with his wig and moustache and glasses. 

“Well, Mr. Har – eh – Washington, what do you do when you’re not dancing at Fringe with the beautiful and very talented Selma Rose?

“I work with psychopaths,” he said through half-gritted teeth. 

“High functioning sociopaths,” Sherlock muttered. He had rested his hand on John’s shoulder and was squeezing too hard. John would have protested had he any functional nerve endings in the area.

“Well, George, turn around and meet your partner. Take a minute to get acquainted while we talk with our other contestant.”

Mercifully, at last, the emcee moved away to chat with Sherlock’s former partner who was standing awkwardly beside Selma looking a bit out of his element. John caught him looking over at Sherlock with sad puppy eyes. 

Time to put that puppy down.

“I’m leading,” Sherlock said as soon as John glanced at him. “And it’s going to be very difficult to stay focused looking at that ridiculous thing on your face.”

“What? My nose? The one you bloodied the other day?” John hissed.

“Accident. Ultimately your fault.” Sherlock frowned. “Really, John, did you think that a hairpiece and moustache would be an adequate disguise?”

“If you weren’t looking for me, yes. Why were you looking for me?” John kept his voice low and, as he was on display in the middle of the dance floor, tried for a non-threatening stance. He unfolded his arms and let them drop to his side but had to force himself to unclench his fingers.

“I was not looking for you. I was _looking_. Observing.” Sherlock fixed him with his gaze now. He really seemed to find the moustache repulsive as he scrunched up his nose as if he’d just eaten something unexpectedly sour. “It’s what I _do_ , John. _Observe._ ”

“Well, you observed right through my disguise, then,” John said. “Good for you.”

“I recognized you from behind,” Sherlock said. He lifted a hand and acknowledged someone on the stage, who was apparently signaling them that the round was about to start.

“Staring at my arse again?” challenged John as he and Sherlock faced each other and Sherlock rested his hand on John’s back.

They stared at each other. John felt both brave and triumphant for delivering that one. He smacked his hand down on Sherlock’s shoulder and smirked.

Sherlock appeared slightly rattled. “Your gait,” he hissed.

“Right,” John replied. “My gait _and_ my arse.” 

“And why are you here, then?” Sherlock changed the subject. “I don’t recall needing to know what you and Harry are having for dinner or what film you see.”

“I don’t pretend to be doing experiments when I’m out with my sister,” John countered. The music had started and they were dancing now. Dancing effortlessly, in fact. He found himself doing left and right turn sequences, easy changes between them. Their knees brushed but no one was stepping on feet, or awkwardly trying to regain the rhythm. 

“Pretend?” Sherlock responded. They were moving quickly as this piece seemed to have a much faster tempo – that was odd, John thought – and he noticed a flash of red out of the corner of his eye as Selma and her partner passed on the opposite side of the floor. 

“Explosion, Sherlock? Aluminum foil?”

“Completely plausible.” Sherlock led him through a series of turns and twirls – which John completed, despite feeling rather foolish about it.

“Cologne.”

“Magazine sample,” Sherlock snapped.

“And you shaved just before settling in to do this experiment because…?” John was starting to breathe heavily. He swore this was a waltz on steroids. They were easily doing double tempo, which left him unable to think about what he was doing and only able to react to Sherlock’s lead. The proximity of Sherlock’s body, the way they slotted together as they moved, the smell of him – cologne and perspiration and whatever the hell it was he put on his hair, even the texture of the ridiculous silver jacket – all of it was so damn _sensual_. And the more they argued, the more tightly Sherlock grasped his shoulder blade, and the more forcefully John clutched Sherlock’s shoulder. Their joined hands were sweaty, palms sliding against each other as they moved.

“I shave several times a day,” Sherlock said as he led John through a flawless Twinkle. 

“Liar.” John moved forward, slotting his knee between Sherlock’s legs as Sherlock moved back in turn. 

“Fine. I shaved for my secret lover. Happy?”

“Right.” 

Sherlock dropped John into a final dip as the music faded, and there was a flurry of activity as they were declared the hands-down winners, and presented with a bottle of champagne. Selma hugged John and announced – to everyone within earshot – that she’d never seen Sherlock fit so well with a partner, and Clara hugged him, and Sherlock greeted her by name – how the _hell_ had he known who Clara was?

And somewhere, in the flurry of activity, when John was trying to figure out just exactly what the next step was considering he had a date – of sorts – Sherlock tried to escape.

He should have taken off the silver coat first.

John saw him edging through the crowd toward the exit, and tore off after him, leaving Clara staring after him with an amused look on her face.

John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist as he was reaching for the door of the cab that had, conveniently, stopped for him the moment he raised his hand to beckon it. He pulled Sherlock back and motioned for another couple to take the cab, then half-dragged him around the corner and into the doorway of the office building beside the club.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Sherlock brushed imaginary lint off the silver jacket.

“Right. The jacket.” He removed it and handed it to John. “They really didn’t have to send you out, John. I’d have brought it back.”

John stared at the silver abomination in his hands, then dropped it onto the pavement.

“I see,” said Sherlock. He looked half angry, half amused. “Not the jacket, then.”

“What’s this all about, Sherlock? What are you doing here? Getting a weekly fix so you don’t have to face a real relationship?”

Sherlock twitched. John twitched along with him. That was low. _Very_ low. 

John’s heart pounded as Sherlock studied him. Sherlock was quiet for a very long time. John could practically hear the wheels turning, the synapses firing. At last, he raised his hand, lowered it quickly, shook his head, looked at John intently again, and plunged ahead.

“You’re jealous,” he said. It was half statement, half question. He looked confused. Like he didn’t quite know what to do with this new and very surprising information. 

“I’m not.” John turned away. Now might be a good time to make his own exit.

Sherlock caught him by the shoulder and spun him around. John backed up against the wall, fight or flight instincts kicking in.

“You are. You’re jealous.” The confusion had cleared. Sherlock sounded absolutely amazed.

“You’re crazy.” John wanted to strangle himself. Words just kept coming out of his mouth. The words he’d been saying for years. Words he no longer believed. This whole thing had started with the realization of his feelings. Feelings that very much contradicted his next words. 

“I’m not gay.”

Sherlock’s face morphed into something John had never quite seen before. Like he’d just solved the most perplexing crime and found the perpetrator sitting across from him at the table, enjoying a pint. He looked like Christmas had come early, like Lestrade had just called with a ten. John hadn’t seen such a joyous look on his face since Anderson had been demoted. 

He fixed his gaze on John and took a bold step forward. 

“No, but you want to be.”

And there it was. The truth – stark, bare and naked.

Neither of them said another word, but something shimmered between them. Something raw, like an open wound. Something dangerous, like standing on a precipice and feeling the earth move beneath your feet. They were both flushed from the exertion of the dance, out of breath, pumped with adrenaline. Sherlock was on a high – like he had solved the most difficult of puzzles, the most complex case of his career.

Perhaps he had.

“You want me. After all this time – you see what’s been in front of you for a decade. I don’t believe it.”

He turned away from John, then leaned his back against the brick wall and covered his face with his hands.

John’s stomach dropped. He was suddenly unsure. 

“Christ John – why now?”

Fuck.

Sherlock had dropped his hands and was staring at John. He looked devastated.

John sucked in a breath. Was he wrong? Or worse yet – too late? _Was_ there someone else? Someone who left his cologne lingering on Sherlock’s collar last week?

“I…I mean Harry….” He shook his head, and looked at Sherlock’s stricken face. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I only just…I mean, Harry made me see it. And she said I was a fool since I’d clearly chosen you – always put you first, I mean. And then last week – when you knocked me down when you thought….”

He was stammering like a teenager.

Sherlock was staring at him, mouth pressed closed in a thin line. John hated that look. He looked almost angry, and what the fuck had John done? Sherlock could have _told_ him how he felt any time over the past ten years.

“Look. Forget it. I thought – I thought – no. Never mind. Just forget it. Let’s go home. Pretend like this never happened. I’ll forget all about this place, alright? You can keep coming here and do whatever it is you do….”

“John.” Sherlock had straightened up. “I’m sorry. You must realize by now that the reason I knocked you down was to prevent you from opening that brochure and seeing my photo with the other dancers.”

Right. The brochure. Of course. He was a fucking idiot. God! He sagged against the bricks and squeezed his eyes shut. Could this evening possibly get any worse? 

“Look – I thought we might have something here, alright? I’ve sabotaged every relationship I’ve had the past six years because I put you first. Because you’re the most important thing in my life – not any of these women, or my work. You. Alright? And Harry made me see – that maybe labels don’t work for me. Maybe I’ not gay, and I’m not straight – I’m just fucking devoted to you. And if I’m going to spend the rest of my life living with you, maybe I should consider taking this thing a step further. And when I thought about it, and thought about you, it didn’t sound like a bad idea at all.”

He risked a glance at Sherlock. Sherlock had his head in his hands and he was shaking. Jesus! Was he crying? 

“Sherlock?” he asked, tentatively. He was so completely out of his depth here, floundering. “Sherlock – are you….?”

No. 

He straightened up, glaring, a crushing déjà vu overtaking him. 

The bastard was laughing! He wiped tears of mirth from his face and pointed at John.

“Did you actually think there was someone else? Did you really believe there could ever – ever….?”

“You bastard! This is just like the bomb in that carriage all over again! Damn it, Sherlock!” 

He struck out, aiming a fist at Sherlock’s nose, but Sherlock, after all these years, could anticipate John’s next move. He grabbed his wrist and jerked him forward, tipping him off balance so he fell against Sherlock’s chest. And with a wicked sort of glee, Sherlock ripped off the moustache.

And just like that, they were kissing. 

It wasn’t very different than fighting, when it came down to it, and they were very good at fighting. Scrabbling hands, heavy breathing, a heated press of bodies, a battle for dominance. John definitely hadn’t thought this one out to this point. He was aware that taking things a step further would entail kissing and more, but he’d thought it might start as something awkward, or perhaps with a cuddle on the sofa, certainly initiated by him, and definitely not something so natural, so organic.

It was as if they’d been doing it their entire lives. He dug his hands into Sherlock’s curls; Sherlock’s hands moved over his arse. Lips. Mouths. Tongue. Teeth. God, that mouth. He couldn’t get enough of it, or of the astounding feeling of another man’s cock pressing hard against his hip. How the _hell_ had he gone through ten years living with Sherlock without seeing this? There was nothing about him that wasn’t sexual – from his long, dexterous fingers, to his high cheekbones, narrow hips, the way he wore his clothes, the way his Belstaff moved, snapping the air as he spun around. His voice. The way he moaned from somewhere deep inside when John kissed his way up his neck, the sensual way he ran his fingers over John’s face, and cupped his cheek, and buried his face in his neck and breathed.

This - _this_ was why no one else had ever been right. Why no one else had ever been _enough._ This was Sherlock, all of him, Sherlock with the pieces he’d never seen before. And why wouldn’t this part be just as brilliant and intense as the rest of him?

“Home,” John finally managed, panting as he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s sternum. Sherlock’s hand was in his hair now, running over the new growth at the top of his head – where the hell had that expensive hairpiece gone?

“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” Sherlock murmured.

John wasn’t sure if he meant kissing John, or ripping off the moustache, or rutting together in a public doorway, or running his hand over his shorn head, but he imagined it was all those things. 

Sherlock had them in a cab within two minutes, never suspecting that John’s moustache was now adhered to the seat of his expensive trousers. They tumbled inside, leaving hairpiece and silver jacket in the dust in the doorway, and John spent the entirety of the cab ride with his thigh pressed tightly against Sherlock’s, with Sherlock’s hand gripping it. They attacked each other as soon as they hit the stairs leading up to their flat, and ended up with John straddling Sherlock halfway up the flight, with Sherlock rutting up against him, telling him in great detail what his plans were for the rest of their evening– intriguing plans involving activities John was interested in in more than a medical sense which seemed to involve fingers and stretching and lubrication and screaming orgasm and quite a bit of pounding. John was absolutely sure that neither of them would last through the bit more rutting that was bound to happen given the current state of affairs, but there was always the morning to come.

He managed to scramble off Sherlock after another kiss, long and deep and hot and _Jesus_ he wanted to die in that mouth, and they stumbled up the remaining stairs and fell into the flat, Sherlock immediately on top of John, undoing his shirt buttons while John, fueled by some sort of inner how-to manual he’d never before accessed, went directly for Sherlock’ belt.

They didn’t hear it immediately, or they’d surely have stopped before he had a handful of gorgeous cock and a fistful of Sherlock’s hair.

“Um – hello? Don’t mind me – I’ll just be going.”

Sherlock froze, muttering a barely heard “Oh shit,” but John struggled out from beneath him and rolled heavily to his feet, panting.

“Wiggins – what the hell?” John gaped at the man, who was sidling along the wall toward the door. 

“You’re not supposed to be back yet, you know,” Wiggins stated, bristling a bit. “He said no earlier than ten.”

Sherlock was struggling to his feet now. 

“Plans changed – out. Go!”

“But – ”

“Out!”

Wiggins scuttled, and Sherlock fell against the door, panting and staring at John.

“Do I want to turn around?” John asked. The acrid smell was a dead give-away to what he would find if he did so.

“No. Not really.” Sherlock kept his eyes on John. He was still flushed, and deliciously rumpled – wholly different than John had ever seen him. 

Perfect.

“You paid Wiggins to come in here and mess the place up, didn’t you? Blow up a few things? Destroy the kitchen so I’d think you were here the whole evening?”

John walked slowly forward as he spoke, and by the time he’d said his piece, he was in Sherlock’s very personal space again. He reached for the end of Sherlock’s belt and pulled it out of the loops and dropped it to the floor.

“You’re cleaning that up in the morning,” he said. He pressed in and pulled Sherlock’s head down and kissed him again, resolved to not think about the near destruction of the flat until later. He moved his lips from Sherlock’s with some reluctance, but when Sherlock groaned and dropped his head back against the door, exposing the longest, palest neck in London – John was absolutely convinced of this truth – John realized just how much new territory he had to cover. Lips be damned – he kissed down Sherlock’s jaw onto that glorious neck.

ooOOOoo

“Why Fringe?” John asked sometime later as they lay tangled together on Sherlock’s bed. “Why the secrecy? Why would you care if I knew what you were doing?”

“It was always you,” Sherlock said softly, into the darkness. “But I’m only human, John, no matter what I’ve claimed in the past. I needed something. And even if it were only those brief moments together on the dance floor, and the barest touches the dance offered, the suggestive flirting after, it was…something.” 

John, moved beyond words, touched with sadness, pressed his lips against Sherlock’s temple.

“It wasn’t enough,” he said. “I was such a fool.”

“It was enough,” Sherlock countered. He ran his fingers through John’s hair, smiling as they passed over the shorn hair around his recent injury. He tugged the stubble, then pressed a kiss to the scar. “You were worth the wait.”


End file.
